


the sun rises in spite of everything

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 09:58:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam suffers a minor injury and Sam and Dean share a moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sun rises in spite of everything

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Derek Mahon's "Everything is Going to Be All Right"

Later, Dean finds his favorite bowl broken on the kitchen floor in a pool of batter.

At the time, though, he’s not aware of anything between hearing Sam’s yell of pain and skidding through the library door, looking around for blood or fire.

“What happened?” he asks. At least Sam’s not convulsing on the floor, being eaten by ghouls, burning on the ceiling. Though he is . . . hopping. And swearing.

“I stubbed my fucking toe,” says Sam through his teeth. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He hops to a chair and sits, pulling his bare foot onto his knee to examine it. The toe is already swelling and bruising, Dean sees. The little toe.

“You stubbed your toe,” Dean says disbelievingly, “You stubbed your little toe.” 

“Yes,” says Sam, “God damn it. Fuck.” He pokes aggrievedly at his foot.

Dean drops into the other chair because he’s having a heart attack.

“Jesus,” he says. “Don’t do that to me. I thought you were being dismembered by gryphons. At the very least.” 

“I think it’s broken,” says Sam. “Fuck. Ow. We need to move that fucking stupid card catalogue. Who the hell arranged the furniture here? Were they trying to fucking kill us?”

Dean doubts it, but if they were, he’s in favor. Sam deserves a little low-grade killing. Dean’s having a fucking heart attack here and it’s Sam’s fault.

“You’re forty,” he tells Sam. Sam’s forty. Dean was in the middle of making a fucking birthday cake, because apparently forty years isn’t long enough for Sam to wise up and want pie. “You’re forty years old and you’ve been tossed into tombstones and stabbed and had Trials TB or whatever. And you go bellowing like a goddamn slaughtered bull and give me a heart attack because you stubbed your little toe? You did time in Lucifer’s Cage, Sam. And you stubbed your toe? Jesus.” 

The silence freezes there in Dean’s head. Sam’s staring at him. Fifteen years ago Dean went down to the rack in a hellhound’s jaws. Thirteen years ago Sam took the dive into the Cage. They never mention it, never. They never talk about it. Sometimes they sit right here, passing a single glass back and forth across the shiny wood and the silence, the times they both pick the same night for dreams. The silence doesn’t freeze, those nights, not like this, because they never say a word.

“Well, it hurt,” says Sam mildly at last. Then he starts to shake, tiny tremors, and Dean’s heart seizes up, but Sam’s laughing, rocking back and forth and slapping the table like a fucking idiot. There’s something tickling at the back of Dean’s brain. Next thing he knows it’s got him and he’s wheezing with laughter, tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes, shoulder pressed against Sam’s.

“I dropped your cake,” he says when he can talk again, “When you gave me a goddamn heart attack with your massive toe trauma, I dropped the bowl.”

Sam waves an it's OK with the hand that's not cradling his foot.

“Call Kevin,” he says. “He can stop on the way and buy one.” He gives the toe a pained, experimental wiggle. It’s going to be a sight to behold, Dean can see, blues and violets and greens and yellows. A veritable rainbow. But Sam's wiggling it, so it's probably not broken.

Sam’s forty. He stubbed his fucking toe, and Dean dropped his cake. They’re all right. They’re all right.


End file.
